


Three Words

by SherlockedGinger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M, Male Friendship, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedGinger/pseuds/SherlockedGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock understand each other in ways no one else does. So when John asks "Alright there, Sherlock?" those three simple words have so much more meaning than they appear to. Friendship study to show the depth of their relationship. Not intended as slash but if you want to read it that way you can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Words

**Author's Note:**

> I managed to write something that isn't slash! Though it can easily be interpreted that way if you want. I just wanted to capture their friendship and bond in this odd sort of "relationship study".

"Alright there, Sherlock?" the memory of John's warm familiar voice inquires from somewhere within his mind palace. It's not something he purposely saved in his mental database, but it usage was so common that it just stuck. Not that he ever tried to delete the associated memories. It is a bit of a default phrase between them. 

_Was_  a bit of a default phrase, that is. It was used in the days of their easy companionship. When crime was complicated, but their friendship was simple. John's companionship was something he took for granted, a novel experience for him. Then Moriarty's shadow passed over them and everything went to hell. Not that he believes in Hell. Just a figure of speech. Slang. John would be pleased at his use of a social metaphor.

_"Alright there, Sherlock?_ " The question always seemed to be on the tip of John's tongue. It slipped out easily, thoughtlessly, like a line from a play rehearsed hundreds of times by an aspiring actor. The tone it was spoken in, the intonation of the words and the situation it was applied to might change, but the words never did. It covered a vast variety of topics and became a stand-in phrase for hundreds of other questions that might've been asked by him.

Why? Sherlock isn't sure. John probably isn't either. Not that he can ask. Perhaps it was born of laziness. Sherlock always knew what John was asking, no matter how it was phrased, so why bother manufacturing more verbose sentences? Perhaps it was meant as a statement on John's part. An affirmation as to their bond, knowing that three simple words could span hundreds of inquires. That seems like something John would do, after all he has to have some mechanism to keep himself assured when Sherlock had his fits of callousness. Some way to reaffirm that Sherlock did have a heart and John held some place within it.

Or perhaps, and Sherlock finds this most likely, it was born of John's delicacy. He natural aversion to pushing people into uncomfortable situations or prying into their privacy. Perhaps he used it because his intended questions passed out of Sherlock's comfort zone and he knew they would be met with fierce defensiveness. Perhaps he used it knowing that the phrase gave Sherlock a graceful way to bow out. It could be answered with a casual _"Of course, John"_  easily brushing off the true question as though he didn't understand it. Even though both he and John knew he did.

Most of the time the question was used for simple things, strictly physical. Asked on a day to day basis, often several times in the same day. Questions born from Doctor within John coupled with his naturally caring personality. When Sherlock seemed light-headed.  _Have you eaten enough?_ Answered with an unconvincing nod.

When Sherlock stumbled on a criminal chase and slowed down.  _Did you twist your ankle when you were running?_ Answered with a thin hand waving his concern away and insisting they continue on _._ When Sherlock was unusually pale and his speech became slurred, almost imperceptibly. _Have you bothered trying to sleep this week?_ Answered with a shrug that sometime indicates he has and other times that he doesn't care to. Questions anyone might ask, though most wouldn't receive an answer to.

Not as often, though still on a fairly consistent basis the question penetrated deeper. It delved into more complex, but still comfortable regions, dealing with Sherlock's massive mind and perplexing mental functions. Questions born of their partnership in crime-solving and John's friendly affection. When Sherlock was missing something in a crime-plot equation the question was an offer.  _Need to go back to the crime scene again? Have another look around?_ Often Sherlock didn't even bother answering, but simply donned his coat and swept out of the flat, knowing John would follow close behind.

Or when Sherlock was having particular difficulty unraveling a knotty problem and John wanted to offer help without offending Sherlock by implying he needed it _. Anything I can do? Research? Talk to family members? Get you some more patches?_ Sherlock always took him up gratefully on these hidden propositions. Quick, rambling sentences explaining in unnecessary detail what he wants John to do and why. And John would hide his smile and quickly oblige whatever the request was.

Then, on rare occasions the question bypassed all Sherlock's comfortable barriers. It would float from John's mouth and enter Sherlock's mind. Circumvent his desperate attempts to keep it as a cavalier question, with little meaning. It would skip over the facts and figures residing in his brain and leak through the cracks in his façade to gently coat his heart. Reaching a level of himself so deep that Sherlock often forgot it existed. These questions came directly from John's heart, asked in love and precious understanding of Sherlock's innermost workings _. I know you for real_

It happened on dim nights in the flat when he hadn't had a case for weeks and dark shadows began to shred at his mind. Past miseries returned to linger mockingly in his unoccupied thoughts. Flashes of his early days on the streets too high to recall his own name. The maddening silence of the white-washed walls in the elite rehab facility where he spent nearly a year, courtesy of Mycroft. The sneering, contemptuous voices of those jealous of his mind, verbally spearing him for his cold façade that ferociously guarded his heart. Whether he was guarding something from getting in, or something from shinning out even he couldn't say. Not that he ever gave much thought to that matter.

On those nights he would sit in a strange contortion, perched upon the couch with a cigarette in hand, often curiously of John. He would attempt to dispel the phantoms with clouds of smoke and the sudden comforting surge of nicotine. John would sit opposite in his ragged, but comfortable chair watching him with a grim, barely hidden look of concern. During those times his mouth would form the question, which was safe and simple, but his eyes spoke very different words.  _What's haunting you? I wish I could give you light._

And Sherlock would answer by snuffing out the cigarette and allowing John to distract him with an mundane, but amusing game or moderately interesting TV show. Cluedo, chess, Dr Who. Sometime John even indulged him with an Army story, which intrigues Sherlock more than he'll ever admit. Hearing John speak of the harsh desert and rough humour of his fellow soldiers. The pranks and inside jokes. The horrors and precious moments of humanity that shone through them. He felt as though he was tapping into a deeper level of John, just as John had done to him.

It was used on warm, suffocating nights at a crime scene. As they stood surrounded by flashing lights and the chilling silence that accompanies the discovery of yet another victim. One that he should've saved, if only he been faster. Those times when Sherlock tears desperately at his own mind wondering what he could've possibly missed. Data, facts, figures, they hold the key. But not this time. He'd missed an imperative variable. And important detail. One vital clue. The Yard agents and Lestrade would stand alongside them with waves of desolation rolling off their figures and the accusations of his failure seem to scream at him in the dark, though they remain unspoken. It's not just the failure that eats at him, but the sudden surge of unwelcome guilt, that he fight's off, because it serves no purpose. Guilt that few know he even capable of possessing.

During those times John reaches gently for his arm, barely touching it, recalling his attention to the present. Then the question is meant more as a reassurance.  _You know it's not your fault right? We'll get his guy. You didn't fail, because this isn't over yet._ And Sherlock would nod once, with determination and turn on his heel, headed for the street. On those nights they didn't bother haling a cab. Instead they'd walk the entire way home, no matter the distance. Sherlock paced himself for John's benefit and John in return stayed silent.

It happened in those random moments, when suddenly a careless word or action brought the full weight of Sherlock's neglected humanity down upon him. When he thoughtlessly insulted someone within their close circle of friends. The ones who managed, somehow to work their way into John and Sherlock's hearts. Usually Molly was the victim, and she would scramble from Sherlock's presence as quickly as possible. The following moments were no longer filled with exasperation on John's part. Not since he glimpsed Sherlock's own confusion and remorse at his thoughtless actions. Confusion as to what he'd done to upset her when he had no malicious intent. Remorse that he didn't have the skill set required to treat her the way she deserved, and apologize when he was unknowingly unkind. On those days the question translated to  _"Don't worry, she'll forgive you."_ Or  _"I know you didn't mean it. Just try to be more careful."_ And sometimes  _"Want me to go after her and explain?"_

At first the question was met with exasperation _. "Alright there Sherlock?"_ would be answered with a derisive snort when it applied to the physical. When it applied to anything else it was met with a swift defensiveness. A hiss of irritation, snapping  _"I'm fine"_  before disappearing into his room. Or a sharp reprimand  _"What's it matter to you?"_  or  _"What difference does it make?"_ rapped out at John like a smack in the face. But he understood he was pressing Sherlock's barriers and accepted this with grace and quiet determination. It was an unwelcome intrusion as far as Sherlock was concerned. A useless question that would only gather unimportant information.

Then slowly Sherlock warmed to the questions. He wasn't sure when it happened or why, but one day when John asked he answered. In his own convoluted way. He came to see them as subtle signs of affection, the only sort he could handle. The words seemed innocuous to everyone save the two of them. It was sentiment cleverly disguised for his benefit. He came to relish the words and sometimes found himself fighting a small smile upon hearing them.

On a few occasions he mirrored the question back. The first time was when John got news that an Army buddy died in car crash. His face suddenly became haggard as he hung up the phone and in a monotone he explained to Sherlock what happened. Some idiot was drunk and ran him off the road. Car flipped and that was it. For a moment Sherlock remained silent, knowing he should offer comfort, but unsure as to what was he to do. He reached a hand tentatively towards John, but he'd barley extended it an inch before John flinched, almost reflexively away.

Which was fine really, because Sherlock wasn't sure what he intended to do with it anyway. Pat his shoulder? Give him a stiff one armed hug? Just set it on his shoulder? He retracted it quickly and stuck it in his trouser pocket instead. The awkwardness became suffocating for a moment, Sherlock racking his massive mind for something he could offer and John patiently giving him a chance. Wanting Sherlock to come through and show a flicker of humanity, even for just a moment so he could be reminded of light in the world. The words slipped out almost of their own accord John begin to turn away, disappointed. Sherlock knew it sounded casual, but the subtle meaning was deeper and he hoped John would understand.  _" I'm so very sorry John. I'm your friend and I care that you're hurting. I care about you. Can I help?"_

At first the question was met with a quick curt nod, waving off his grief and Sherlock's words. Then the words and their familiarity dawned on John and he understood Sherlock meant it as an offer of comfort and affection. He allowed himself a brief and unusually warm smile in Sherlock's direction, before murmuring quietly  _"I'm going out for a bit."_  Followed by a slight pause, before he continued with ill disguised hopefulness " _You can tag along if you like. It'd be a good idea for you to get out of the flat for a bit. You haven't had a case in weeks."_ Though he'd have rather remained their and worked on a fresh liver he had in the fridge Sherlock followed without hesitation.

" _Alright there, Sherlock?"_  Three simple words he'd give almost anything to hear. Well, not  _anything_. That's a bit dramatic, but hearing them would offer great comfort to him. His musings are violently interrupted by the sudden crash of glass connecting with the floor in the hotel room above him. His fond memories disappear suddenly in a cloud of chaos as voices in an unfamiliar language begin arguing viciously; undoubtedly about who was at fault in knocking over what Sherlock assumes was a vase.

He finds 221B is gone from his mind's eye and instead he's faced with the unpleasant reality of the present. A cheap, drafty hotel room, scattered notes on his most recent target and a heavy fog of tobacco in the air. He berates himself quietly for becoming distracted and turn to his laptop to pull up a map program. He needs to find a small café that his target frequents. Even criminals need their routine coffee cup it seems. While it's loading his allows his mind to stray to its previous train for a brief moment.

He knows what his answer will be when, _if_ , he hears that question again. He'll allow the corner of his mouth to turn op just slightly in a hint of a smile. His eyes will warm and the words and he'll answer in a tone as cavalier as possible  _"I am now."_  And John will know exactly what he means.


End file.
